He went to get the boat ready.
He went back to the room for something.
He wasn’t feeling well.
I could have made up stories all day. But the stories didn’t explain the ring mark. They didn’t explain the freeze at dinner. They didn’t explain the missing fish pictures, or the hand behind his back, or the jam he didn’t bring.
The Gull’s Nest had a phone number on its website.
I looked at it for a long time.
Then I called.
It rang four times. A woman picked up. She sounded older, with a gravelly smoker’s voice and a friendly lilt.
“Gull’s Nest, this is Carol.”
“Hi, Carol.” My voice came out too high. I cleared my throat. “I’m calling because my husband was there on Saturday morning. With some friends. He thinks he might have left something behind.”
“Oh, sure, hon. What’s he think he left?”
